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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26474872">When All is Wed and Done</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_murmaider/pseuds/little_murmaider'>little_murmaider</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Metalocalypse (Cartoon)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>90s References, Coworkers to lovers, M/M, Pining, Pre-Klok, Road Trips, Slow Burn, Tags to be added</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 09:35:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,323</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26474872</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_murmaider/pseuds/little_murmaider</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A last-minute wedding invitation sends Pickles on a misbegotten road trip from Tampa to Tomahawk. And the only person willing to join him on his long road to ruin is...Murderface.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>William Murderface/Pickles the Drummer</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>41</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It came on a Tuesday.<br/>
<br/>
Empty liquor bottles lining the living room walls glowed orange under the late afternoon sun. Fruit flies wafted around dirty pots and pans soaking in the soupy kitchen sink. A droning box fan mounted atop a pile of old pizza boxes drowned out the sound of Skwisgaar’s unplugged fretting. Nathan sifted through the mail, the PO Box keyring still dangling from his pinky finger.<br/>
<br/>
“Bill, bill, chain letter, bill…”<br/>
<br/>
Magnus snapped his fingers then extended his outstretched palm.<br/>
<br/>
“How about you give those bills to me, big man,” he said. “Seeing as <em>I</em>.” He glared into the middle distance with antagonistic exasperation. “Am the one who<em> pays them</em>."<br/>
<br/>
Pickles smirked. “Yeah, because yer so <em>good</em> at it.”<br/>
<br/>
“Ja,” Skwisgaar chimed in, “yous de best bills payer I ever seens in my lifes.”<br/>
<br/>
“An’ we don’ wanna stand in th’ way of <em>greatness</em>.”<br/>
<br/>
Magnus organized the stack on his lap, unsheathed a switchblade, and sliced open an envelope in inscrutable silence. <br/>
<br/>
Nathan went on: “Something from Shady Pines Retirement Home I can only <em>assume</em> is for Skwisgaar. Probably something gross. I regret touching it.”<br/>
<br/>
Skwisgaar winked in confirmation and lifted his hips to slide the letter into his back pocket.<br/>
<br/>
“And uhhhhhh oh.” Nathan held up a thick, square envelope, the front adorned with careful black calligraphy. “Pickles, this is for you.”<br/>
<br/>
“Really?”<br/>
<br/>
Other than a notice from the DMV alerting him his license was about to expire or an errant Snakes n’ Barrels residuals check, it was rare for Pickles to get mail. The envelope was sealed with a shiny gold sticker, embossed with the letters <em>M &amp; C</em> inside of a heart. Pickles tucked his thumb under the fold and tore, curiosity pricking his senses.<br/>
<br/>
“Hey did you guys ever notice whenever Pickles gets mail or any other official documents, his last name is always smudged out?” Nathan stroked his chin, pondering. “Huh. That’s weird, right? I’m just noticing how weird that is.”<br/>
<br/>
The velvety-soft paper gave way to unveil a heavy piece of cardstock, the edges framed in reflective gold foil. With the envelope flayed open, Pickles could see it’s interior, too, was lined with glittery gold. He scrunched up his face to read the card’s small, looping script. <em>Mr. and Mrs. Martin O’Connor</em>—who?—<em>request the pleasure of your company at the marriage</em>—<b>marriage? </b>Wait—      <br/>
<br/>
“It’s an invitation to my cousin Creampie’s weddin’,” he announced.<br/>
<br/>
Magnus squinted. “Your cousin’s name is Creampie?”<br/>
<br/>
“I haven’t talked to him since we were kids. How’d he get my address?” <br/>
<br/>
“Creampie is his Christian name?”<br/>
<br/>
“Oh, pfft!” He jabbed the invite with his finger. “This thing’s <em>this weekend</em>. What, he thinks I’m gonna drop everythin’ and haul ass up to Wiscahnsin just to hang out with a buncha people I hate? Fuck that, dood.” He tossed everything aside with a nimble flick of his wrist. “Why’d he even invite me?”<br/>
<br/>
“Maybe he needs a seat filler,” Magnus said. “You can make decent money as a professional seat filler. Mostly for award shows, but you can clean up if you run the funeral circuit.” He perked up, holding his tented hands beneath his chin. “<em>Speaking of</em> <em>finding ways to make money</em>—”<br/>
<br/>
“Hey, what’s dat?” Skwisgaar interrupted.<br/>
<br/>
The flight across the living room had shaken loose something else from the envelope: A small, handwritten note, lying in the sticky sheen glossing the coffee table. Lacking the girlish extravagance and quiet refinement of the rest of the invitation, it appeared as though a message had been scrawled on an old gas station receipt.<br/>
<br/>
Nathan scooped it up and read aloud.<br/>
<br/>
“<b><em>Hey Pee Boy</em></b>—”<br/>
<br/>
“Incredible,” Magnus muttered.<br/>
<br/>
“—<b><em>Wasssssssup? You seen that commercial? Sooooo funny. Anyway I’m in a jam and I’m hoping you can bail me out. See, my wedding DJ dropped out at the last minute, and since you’re the best/only musician I know, I thought maybe</em></b>—oh shit.”<br/>
<br/>
“What?”<br/>
<br/>
Nathan’s grin widened with mischievous, schadenfreudian delight.<br/>
<br/>
“He wants you to play the wedding.”<br/>
<br/>
“He wants me to<b><em> WHAT?!</em></b>”<br/>
<br/>
Pickles leapt to his feet and snatched the note from Nathan’s grip, scanning it in disbelief. Nathan must have read it wrong. It had to be a misunderstanding. There was no way, no <em>way</em> that’s what it <em>actually</em> said.<br/>
<br/>
But no. There it was. Written in bleeding Sharpie.<br/>
<br/>
“Ya’ve gahtta be <em>fuckin’ kidding me</em>.”<br/>
<br/>
“Gee, Pee Boy,” Nathan said, “you seem pretty upset.”<br/>
<br/>
“Buncha <em>parasites</em>, all’a them!” He paced a haphazard course through the river of detritus decorating their living room floor, the clattering junk an accompaniment to his rant. “When Snake n’ Barrels blew up I had all these—”<br/>
<br/>
He stabbed the air with finger quotes.<br/>
<br/>
“—<em>relatives</em> coming outta th’woodwork, looking to get theirs. <em>Oooh I’m yer uncle, ooooh I’m yer third cousin twice removed, oooooh I’m yer niece’s third grade teacher’s sister’s neighbor</em>. None’a them gave a <em>shit</em> about me until I had somethin’ to give em. Everyone’s just tryna suckle at the <em>money teet</em>—”<br/>
<br/>
“Ew,” Skwisgaar said, wrinkling his nose.<br/>
<br/>
“—I thought once th’ band broke up and I fell into relative obscurity—”<br/>
<br/>
Magnus cocked his head. “<em>Relative</em> is generous.”<br/>
<br/>
“—I’d be <em>done</em> with these people. But they always, <em>always</em> manage to find me! Fuck ‘em!”<br/>
<br/>
The plastic garbage bin made a wobbly <b><em>WHUH-BAM</em></b> when Pickles kicked it over. Garbage spilled outward, indistinguishable from the garbage that was already on the ground. Pickles was about to add the note to the pile and forget about it forever when he noticed something. At the very bottom, crammed tightly in the corner, was a phone number. His indignation curdled.<br/>
<br/>
“I’m callin’ this asshole and tellin’ him t’go fuck himself.”<br/>
<br/>
Pickles stomped to the phone, yanked it from the receiver, punched a few numbers. Stopped. Listened to the humming dial tone. Slammed the phone back into place.<br/>
<br/>
“No, <em>you know what</em>.” He pivoted and made a beeline for the exit. “I’m gonna call this asshole <em>collect</em>.”<br/>
<br/>
Nathan swung open the front door so Pickles didn’t even need to break his stride.<br/>
<br/>
“<em>He</em> can pay for me to tell him t’go fuck himself.”<br/>
<br/>
Five bounding steps and he was on the street.<br/>
<br/>
Around the corner from their apartment complex and across the street from the abandoned gas station was a payphone. Some previous user stuck a wad of gum beside the coin return, a gray lump hardened by Florida heat. A cat lapped at the lip of a crushed can of SURGE then, startled by Pickles’s presence, scampered away. The phone was grimy in Pickles’s hand. He waited for the automated operator, then spoke:<br/>
<br/>
“Hiya, I’d like t’place a collect call. From <em>eeeyyyyhhhhh</em>.”<br/>
<br/>
He closed his eyes.<br/>
<br/>
“<b><em>Pee Boy</em></b><b>.”<br/>
<br/>
</b>The call clicked into connection. Pickles grinded his thumbnail on the phone’s metallic coil, knocking his heel into his shin. The phone rang. And rang. And rang. At last, an answer.<br/>
<br/>
“<em>Peeeeeee </em><b><em>BOYYYYYYYYYYYYY</em></b><b>.”</b><br/>
<br/>
Pickles sighed. “Hey, Creampie.”<br/>
<br/>
“Dooooooood it’s <em>so</em> good t’here from ya! Ya gaht my invite!”<br/>
<br/>
“Uh-huh. I gaht yer invite. To yer wedding. In four days.”<br/>
<br/>
A muffled background roar was shushed down. “Sahrry fer th’ late notice, heh, you are <em>naht</em> an easy man t’ track down.”<br/>
<br/>
“That’s by design.” Pickles pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yer gettin’ married in four days.”<br/>
<br/>
“Oooooooooohhhhhhh yeaaaah dood! I can’t wait fer you to meet Mandy, she’s <em>so</em> hot!”<br/>
<br/>
Pickles filled his lungs, held it, then released.<br/>
<br/>
“Creampie, Imma level with you.” He leaned his weight against the booth. “We haven’t talked in almost a decade. Th’fuck you doin’ askin’ me to play your wedding?”<br/>
<br/>
“Ha ha—”<br/>
<br/>
“What makes you <em>think</em>,” Pickles said, building momentum, “I wanna come all the way up from <em>Florida</em>, to do a <em>favor</em>, for <em>you?</em>”<br/>
<br/>
“Aaaahh maaaaan, I knew it wuzza long shot.” Pickles heard the crack and fizz of a beer being opened. “Yer mom said there’s no waaaaay you’d come.”<br/>
<br/>
A spark ignited in Pickles’s belly.<br/>
<br/>
“My mahm?” <br/>
<br/>
“Yeah she said somethin’ like uhhhh,” he smacked his lips to punctuate a sip, “Ya don’t understand the importance of family, ya don’t care about anybody but yerself, yerself selfish, yer a burnout, she went on fer a while but I gahtta be honest, dood, I zoned out fer a laht of it cause I was <em>super high</em>—”<br/>
<br/>
Creampie’s voice tuned down as a steady, throbbing rage built within Pickles. It started in the balls of his feet, fracturing up his shins, coiling through his guts and sinking its talons into his heart. Of <em>course</em> his mom was disappointed. Of <em>course</em> she didn’t think he could fulfill her expectations. Of <em>course</em> she saw him as nothing. None of this was new. The anger he felt was the same anger that thickened his veins when he <em>left</em> that life so long ago. An anger that blacked out his vision, strengthened his resolve, filled in any potholes of despair. An anger that made him want to prove to someone, <em>anyone</em>, that he was better than it.<br/>
<br/>
Before he knew what he was saying he heard himself say, “Okay. I’ll do it.”<br/>
<br/>
Creampie cheered.<br/>
<br/>
“Yeah dood! Awesome! Yeah! Can’t wait t’see ya! Also <em>ope</em> we’re askin’ that all monetary gifts be made in cash because I’m <em>naht allowed to have a bank accoooooount</em>.” <br/>
<br/>
Pickles frowned. “The gift is I’m drivin’ across the country to play your wedding. That is your gift.” <br/>
<br/>
“Alright dood, whutever, lil’ stingy but that’s fine. See ya at the wedding Pee Boy!”<br/>
<br/>
Pickles disconnected the call with his middle finger. The phone slid out of his palm and slapped into the side of his thigh. The anger simmered in him, pulsating with discontent. What the <em>hell</em> did he just do?<br/>
<br/>
When he re-entered the apartment Nathan was on the couch beside Magnus, flipping aimlessly through the TV channels.<br/>
<br/>
“Did you tell that guy to go fuck himself?” he asked, not looking up from the television.<br/>
<br/>
Pickles squirmed in embarrassment.<br/>
<br/>
“I’m goin’ to Wiscahnsin.” <br/>
<br/>
The room erupted.<br/>
<br/>
“I guess I can take my guitar,” Pickles said, tipping his chin to the acoustic guitar in the corner of his room as he stuffed pairs of socks into a backpack. “I’m naht dismantlin’ my whole kit just to play, fuckin’, <em>More Than Words</em>, right? That’s crazy, right?”<br/>
<br/>
“Right, <em>that’s</em> the crazy part,” Magnus deadpanned.<br/>
<br/>
“Wait, you’re <em>going</em>?” <br/>
<br/>
Pickles turned to face Nathan. “What choice do I have?”<br/>
<br/>
“Corrects me if ams wrong, Pee Boy,” Skwisgaar said, “but I believes <em>not</em> goingks am also a choice?”<br/>
<br/>
Nathan tapped his nose with his index finger twice and pointed at Skwisgaar.<br/>
<br/>
“That’s <em>naht</em> how it works. I—” A terrible realization settled upon him. “Shit. I need one of you to come with me.”<br/>
<br/>
Everyone grimaced.<br/>
<br/>
“C’mahn!”<br/>
<br/>
“Sorry, Pee Boy, I have to work. Dimitri said if I miss one more shift I will be.” Magnus tapped a finger to his lips contemplatively. “How did he put it? He said it so eloquently. Ah, yes, <em>shit-canned</em>.”<br/>
<br/>
Pickles whirled on Nathan.<br/>
<br/>
“I can’t, I got my fuckin’.” He ground the heel of his palm into his eye socket. “Family party barbeque thing this weekend. I can’t miss it.”<br/>
<br/>
Pickles pivoted again.<br/>
<br/>
“Skwisgaar?”<br/>
<br/>
“Can’ts. I gots Nathan’s family party barbeque t’ings.”<br/>
<br/>
“BullSHIT.”<br/>
<br/>
“No, it’s true.” Nathan rolled his eyes. “My mom was dropping off my laundry and Skwisgaar was the only one home to let her in. So she invited him.”<br/>
<br/>
Skwisgaar ceased his strumming to stack his hands beneath his chin, smiling cheesily.<br/>
<br/>
“Mrs. Explosion says I ams a <em>very</em> nice young mans,” he fluttered his eyelashes, “ands she wishes <em>all</em> of Nathan’s friends ams so <em>sweet </em>and <em>polites </em>as mes.”<br/>
<br/>
Nathan picked up an empty beer can and launched towards Skwisgaar’s face. It missed.<br/>
<br/>
An insistent kicking at the base of the front door interrupted the scene. Nathan, the closest to the entrance, rose. He flung open the door to reveal Murderface, a case of beer under each arm.<br/>
<br/>
“Guysch, we <em>gotta</em> talk about the chore wheel,” Murderface said, releasing the cases to drop at his feet. “It’sch gotta be broken. I feel like I’m <em>alwaysch</em> the one who hasch to run out for errandsch!”<br/>
<br/>
Magnus stared at the cases. “You going to put those away, or…?”<br/>
<br/>
“Fuck <em>you</em> I juscht carried thesche ten <em>blocksch</em> <b>you</b> put them away!” His tone shifted, expression brightening. “Scho what are we talking about, fellach?”<br/>
<br/>
Nathan slumped back into the couch, smirking.<br/>
<br/>
“Pickles is in crisis.”<br/>
<br/>
Pickles emerged from his bedroom clutching two identical tank tops, flung them to the ground, and clutched Murderface’s shoulders.<br/>
<br/>
“My cousin asked me to play his weddin’ this Saturday,” he said. “It’s in Wiscahnsin. It’s gonna fuckin’ suck. I need someone t’go with me.” <br/>
<br/>
The skin covering Murderface’s skull tightened. An over-exaggerating scowl muffled the smallest spark of joy.<br/>
<br/>
“You mean, asch a date?”<br/>
<br/>
Behind them, Nathan and Skwisgaar snickered.<br/>
<br/>
“What? No. I just need someone t’sit in the car with me so I don’t go insane from drivin’ for 22 hours straight.” <br/>
<br/>
Murderface’s expression adjusted.<br/>
<br/>
“Scho you’re inviting me on a road trip?” he said, incandescent with excitement. “A cool palsch road trip? <br/>
<br/>
Pickles pouted.<br/>
<br/>
“I guess that’s one way’a lookin’ at it, but <em>listen</em>.” His hands crept up to curve around his neck. “Murderface. These douchebeegs are out. You’re my last hope.” He paused, grasp tightening. “Will you, please, <em>please</em>, go to this shitty wedding with me?”<br/>
<br/>
A long moment passed. Then, Murderface smiled. <br/>
<br/>
“Okay, schure.” He shrugged. “I mean it’sch not like I got anything better to do thisch week.” <br/>
<br/>
Magnus lurched forward, knuckles dragging on the carpet. “Once again I am making the <em>aggressive </em>suggestion that you <em>find a job</em> so I’m not the only one providing us with a steady income." <br/>
<br/>
Everyone exploded in laughter.<br/>
<br/>
“Oh Magnusch,” Murderface said, jovially flopping his hand over his wrist, “you’re crazy!” <br/>
<br/>
“There goes crazy Magnus with all his crazy ideas,” Nathan said, wiping at a tear from his eye.<br/>
<br/>
Magnus threw his head back to stare at the ceiling.<br/>
<br/>
“I got to stop living with <em>fucking kids</em>.”<br/>
<br/>
Pickles nabbed Murderface’s vest and pulled him towards him, slapping the sides of his face once he was close.<br/>
<br/>
“You’re comin’ with me?”<br/>
<br/>
“Yesch!”<br/>
<br/>
“For real?”<br/>
<br/>
“Yesch!” Murderface stepped out of the hold, his body language tense but his face soft. “Ready when you are.” <br/>
<br/>
“Great.” Pickles stumbled back toward his room. “We leave in th’ morning. I gahtta rent a car. Maybe the manager will be able to get me a deal. I’m gonna call him. You pack a bag and be ready by 7 am, cool?” <br/>
<br/>
“Cool.” Murderface nodded, flooded with anticipation, and then as the reality of what he agreed to hit him, he blanched. “Did you schay it’sch a 22 hour drive?”<br/>
<br/>
“Yep! Maybe 24! Pack light!” </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This one is for Tai and Dave, both of whom I love with my entire heart.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A 7 a.m. departure was never in the realm of possibility.<br/><br/>The bells of the cathedral four blocks over chimed for the eleventh hour as Pickles loaded the last of his gear into the rental’s trunk. When he’d asked Charles to secure a car for them, he wasn’t expecting him to roll up with anything flashy. But would it have killed him to go with something a little less nondescript?<br/><br/>“The thing I love about the Nissan Maxima,” Charles slapped the roof of the boxy silver sedan, an uncharacteristic enthusiasm brightening his voice, “is it’s reliability. It’s the top of its class. You won’t find a better vehicle on the road, in terms of efficiency—”<br/><br/>Pickles interrupted him with a low, rueful chuckle. Pinching the frames of his aviators, he turned his face into the sun, staring resolutely into the middle distance.<br/><br/>“Yer naht even gonna <em>try</em> and stop me, huh?”<br/><br/>“I <b><em>did</em></b> try and stop you. Many times.”<br/><br/>“Oh yeah."<br/><br/>Charles leaned through the open passenger side window and snapped open the glove compartment. “There’s your rental information, your registration, your proof of insurance—I paid extra for collusion. That is a <em>precautionary</em> measure, it is <em>not</em> an excuse to be reckless.”<br/><br/>“Aw, c’mahn, dood, when’evya ever known me t’be <em>reckless</em>?”<br/><br/>Charles pressed his mouth into a tight line.<br/><br/>“Mm, fair enough.”<br/><br/>“I’ve taken the liberty of charting your course.” He handed Pickles a tidily-folded road map, which Pickles opened like an accordion. “You’ll find I’ve marked, ah, <em>several</em> points of interest that should be of use to you throughout your journey. <em>Please</em> make use of them. We have studio time booked for next week and I don’t want to lose the deposit.”<br/><br/>The map was spotted with round, colorful stickers, their meanings explained in a helpful hand-drawn legend. Yellow for rest stops, green for gas stations, blue for motels.  The route was marked in neat red ink, a half-healed scar bisecting six states—Florida and Georgia and Tennessee and Kentucky and Illinois and then, at last, Wisconsin. Beneath the map scale, Charles’s meticulous handwriting divided the trip into three legs to complete over the next three days. And under that, he’d calculated the total distance, a muted scream in heavy black ink.<br/><br/>1,500 miles to Tomahawk. The number made his stomach lurch.<br/><br/>“There’s, ah.” Charles reached into his breast pocket, sunlight blanching his eyes behind a white void of glass.  “There’s just. There’s this.”<br/><br/>Pickles halved the map twice, tossed it into the passenger side well, and accepted the small manilla envelope Charles timidly extended. Inside was a stack of crisp, freshly-withdrawn $20 bills.<br/><br/>“That should be enough to cover food, gas, lodging, any other, ah, unexpected expenses that might arise.”<br/><br/>Pickles thumbed through the bills like a blackjack dealer. He eyeballed it around $300.<br/><br/>“Dood, no—”<br/><br/>“It’s too long a trip to do in one shot,” Charles pushed. “And it’s too dangerous to pull over and sleep on the shoulder.”<br/><br/>“I wasn’t gonna do that!”<br/><br/>Charles hummed.<br/><br/>“...On any major highways! I’d go to a, fuckin’, Dimmu Burger parking lot, or somethin’...”<br/><br/>He trailed off, and silence stretched between them.<br/><br/>A flash of red burst through the periphery, and then a bright, shining Acura NSX whipped into the complex parking lot. The sun glinted off the just-waxed hood as the car pulled crookedly into a spot four spaces from the rental. The engine cut, and a fat geezer emerged from the driver’s seat. Smoothing out his gel-slicked hair with the flats of his palms, he tottered toward a bottom floor apartment with the smug contentedness of someone used to being watched.<br/><br/>Pickles tapped the end of the envelope to Charles’s chest.<br/><br/>“Charlie, I can’t accept this.”<br/><br/>“I’ll tell you what.” He clapped his hand over Pickles’s wrist and with the barest amount of pressure lowered his arm to his side. “We’ll call it a loan.”<br/><br/>The ugliest, rattiest part of Pickles leapt to life. He could blow this entire payload at the liquor store on 15th. Or he could call up Magnus’s dealer and clean out his stock. Or he could act on any of his many, many, <em>many</em> self-destructive impulses because maybe he was nothing more than a worthless, unloveable, gutterscummy piece of shit.<br/><br/>Pickles slid the envelope into his back pocket. “Thank you,” he exhaled, and Charles smiled.<br/><br/>Above them, a screendoor slammed, and Murderface crashed out of the apartment.<br/><br/>“WHOA you rented usch an Acura NXSch?” He staggered down the steps two at a time, duffle bag jostling on his hip. “Schick!”<br/><br/>But Charles cut him off at the pass at the base of the stairs. Clearing his throat, he pointed behind him to the <em>actual</em> rental. The light went out of Murderface’s eyes.<br/><br/>“Aw we’re riding in <em>a Maxima?</em>” He frowned as he approached, flopping his baggage onto the simmering pavement. “Kinda hoped you’d get usch schomething a little schexier.”<br/><br/>Charles stooped to snag Murderface’s duffle and deposited it into the backseat.<br/><br/>“I was between the Honda Civic and the Maxima,” he said. “The Civic has better fuel efficiency, but the Maxima is much more spacious, which I thought you’d find, ah, essential.”<br/><br/>Murderface scowled. “Are you schaying I’m fat?”<br/><br/>“I’m saying.” Charles opened the passenger side door and swept his free arm across his body in a fluid, butler-like gesture. “If you’re going to be in a car for several days, you’ll want the extra legroom.”<br/><br/>Murderface’s glare intensified, the skin around his mouth pinching as he chewed at the insides of his cheeks.<br/><br/>“Hmmmm.” His murderous gaze stayed locked on Charles as he sank into the seat, lifted his feet into the car, and crushed the map beneath the soles of his boots. “<em>O-kay</em>.”<br/><br/>Charles shut the door and sighed.<br/><br/>“You’ll need to return it with a full tank.”<br/><br/>Pickles settled into the driver’s side, pulling up the seat so the wheel was almost flush against his belly. Charles waited at his window. A beat passed. With a pointed cough, Charles rapped his knuckles on the seatbelt strap, and Pickles grumbled to himself as he buckled in. <br/><br/>Charles continued: “One last thing. Should you find an, ah, <em>alternate</em> means of transportation home, this car can be returned at any cooperating depot.”<br/><br/>Murderface picked at a piece of crud lodged between his teeth with his pinky nail and pointed at the ceiling with his index finger. “Scho we can drop thisch off at any Rent-a-Wreck in the country?”<br/><br/>“And some participating locations in Canada!” A shadow of regret crossed Charles’s face. “Please don’t go to Canada.”<br/><br/>The mirrors didn’t need adjusting but Pickles fiddled with them anyway, a final stalling measure before the inevitable. Tilting the rearview down diagonally, he stared at the warped version of himself reflected in his sunglasses, a replica of a replica. He was doing this. He was <em>really</em> doing this. Fuck. Okay. <em>Okay</em>. <b><em>Fuck</em></b>.<br/><br/>“Welp.” He planted his elbow on the armrest, open hand hanging expectantly out the window. “I’ll seeya when I seeya.”<br/><br/>The weighty black plastic key fob hung from the end of Charles’s ring finger. He raised his arm and then—A stutter? A hesitation? The smallest possible pause, small enough that Pickles noticed. He studied him over the top of his sunglasses. The creases at his eyes, the wrinkle of his nose, the twitch in his throat—he searched for something, <em>anything</em>, the Thing Charles <em>wanted</em> to say, the Thing that without the shield of logistics he was unable to articulate. But then the keys dropped into Pickles’s hand and the moment was gone. <br/><br/>“Bon voyage,” Charles said, and took a step back from the car.<br/><br/>The key fit into the ignition and the engine flared to life. The car backed out and rolled cautiously to the end of the lot, accidentally bouncing a curb as it exited. It rumbled along the road, smooth and efficient, and all the while Pickles watched Charles’s stoic, unchanging form in the rearview, growing smaller and smaller and smaller until he, and Pickles’s chances of backing out of this, vanished completely.<br/><br/>Murderface pounded his fists on the dashboard. “Hell yeah!” he said. “Here we are! Two budsch! Two road trippin’ budsch! Road hawgsch. Two <em>road hawgsc</em>h. Two <em>very handschome</em> <b><em>road hawgsch</em></b>. Together. Hawggin’. On the road.”<br/><br/>Pickles grit his teeth as he chopped at his blinker and pulled onto I-275.<br/><br/>“Mind if I take thesche off?” He unbuckled his boots and tossed them over his shoulder into the back seat. “My dogsch are <em>barking</em>!”<br/><br/>A hot wave of <b><em>stink</em></b> slugged Pickles straight in the jaw.<br/><br/>“Jesus <em>fuck</em> Murderface.” He tugged his shirt collar over his nose and mouth. “You’ve had those on fer less’in 10 minutes. How’dyer feet smell <b><em>so bad</em></b>?”<br/><br/>“You know what’sch crazy?” Murderface’s unsocked feet crossed at the ankles atop the airbag. “You and me have never hung out one-on-one.”<br/><br/>Pickles grimaced. “Whuddya talkin’ about? We hang out alla time.”<br/><br/>‘Well, yeah.”  He flicked at a plantar wart on his heel. “I mean the <em>band</em> hasch. And you, me, Nathan and Skwischgaar have. And you, me and Magnusch have. And you, me and Nathan have. And you, me and Skwischgaar have. And—”<br/><br/>“Ye’ve put a tremendous, unnecessary amount of thought into this.”<br/><br/>“But juscht you and me? <em>Never</em>. Thisch is the firscht time the two of usch have ever been alone.”<br/><br/>The leather of the steering wheel cracked under Pickles’s grip.<br/><br/>“Ha ha. Scho. Wow! That’sch, uh. That’sch cool<em>. Real </em>cool. Cool, fun little fact...”<br/><br/>Murderface scratched at the back of his neck. Pickles pushed his tongue to the back of his teeth. The highway stretched beyond the horizon, and at that moment, Pickles felt every single inch of the 1,500 miles that laid ahead.<br/><br/>“...Y’wanna listen to the radio—”<br/><br/>“ <b><em>YEAH LET’SCH CRANK SCHOME TUNESCHKIS</em></b>.”</p><p><br/>--- </p><p><br/><br/><br/><br/>By the time they stopped for lunch Pickles was ready to combust.<br/><br/>He spent the first couple hours on the road shutting down all of Murderface’s attempts to <em>get chummy</em>. Idle, empty chit-chat was one thing, but car games? No way. Whenever Murderface tried to play the License Plate Game, or I Spy, or—worst of all—20 Questions, Pickles gradually increased the radio volume until the speakers vibrated with bass. Murderface’s visceral enthusiasm burned out around Gainesville, and they rode in relative quiet.<br/><br/>But the quiet wasn’t much better. Half a decade of tour bus hopping took the shine off the <em>romance</em> of The Great American Road Trip. The hum of the air conditioner, the purr of the engine, the vapid drone of Top 40, all of it offered ample room for boredom to fester. He was trapped in a steel box, watching the highway monotonously unfurl, with a whole lot of bullshit waiting for him at the end of the line. And then he had to turn around and do it all over again! It was hell. He was in hell. Frustration stuck in the base of his throat like a fossilized egg.<br/><br/>They sat in a booth at a seedy biker bar, the only scrap of civilization they’d seen for miles. A handful of drunks clustered at the bar like a cancerous mass, malignant and dangerous. Some kids monopolized the pool table. The listless waitress tapped impatiently at her notepad, snapping her gum as Murderface squinted at the specials board.<br/><br/>“What’sch your rib schituation?" <br/><br/>“No, no, absolutely not.” Pickles’s leg bounced beneath the table. “We gahtta get back on the road. Pick somethin’ you can eat fast.”<br/><br/>“You don’t know how fascht I can eat ribsch.”<br/><br/>“Two burgers,” Pickles said, turning to the waitress. “And two’a whutever you have on tap.”<br/><br/>Murderface pumped his fist. “Hell yeah, <em>boysch trip,</em> I’ll drink to<em> that</em>.”<br/><br/>“No they’re both fer me.”<br/><br/>Murderface’s wide smile twitched at the corners.<br/><br/>“Oh. Yeah. Schure. That’sch cool, I can get my own—HEY BARB!” The waitress had already vanished into the kitchen. “Ah, well, Barb’sch gone. I’ll catch her when sche circlesch back.”<br/><br/>Above them, a sunbleached Georgia Bulldogs pennant was pinned to the wall. One of the drunks hacked up something wet and spat it onto the ground. Murderface dropped a well-worn booklet onto the tabletop.<br/><br/>“Check it out!” he said. “I wasch poking around the glove compartment earlier, and I found thisch travel atlasch!”<br/><br/>He thumbed the book open. The busboy arrived with the beers, and Pickles downed his first pint in one gulp.<br/><br/>“There’sch schome pretty neat schtuff we could check out.”<br/><br/>Pickles wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. The beer tasted like day-old piss. He made eye contact with the bartender and jiggled his empty glass.<br/><br/>“We’re naht makin’ any more stahps.”<br/><br/>“Aw come on! What’sch a road trip without a little schight scheeing?”<br/><br/>“This <em>isn’t</em> a road trip.”<br/><br/>“Look here.” He flipped the book around and pointed to a paragraph marked with faded highlighter. “The Crime and Punischment Museum in Aschburn! You love crime! And you love punishchment even more! It’sch only half an hour north of here!”<br/><br/>“I don’t—”<br/><br/>“Thicsch one isch closcher to the Tennessee schtate line: Tank Town USA in Morganton! They’ll let you drive a tank over a car!”<br/><br/>“We’re not—”<br/><br/>“Oh! In Columbusch there’sch a Massch Grave of Circusch Train Wreck Victimsch! Fuck clownsch, right? We can take a pissch on it! It’sch kinda out of the way but if  you don’t mind taking a detour—”<br/><br/>Something monstrous hatched in Pickles’s chest, clawed up his throat, and erupted, screeching, from his mouth.<br/><br/>“No!” He slapped the atlas out of Murderface’s grip. “No no <b><em>no! </em></b>No detours! No extra stahps! It’s a straight shot to Wiscahnsin and that’s <em>nahn-negotiable</em>.”<br/><br/>“But I thought—”<br/><br/>“This isn’t some fuckin’ comin’ of age, life affirmin’, best-friends-pal-around <b><em>vacation</em></b>, alright? We’re naht here to have <em>fun.</em> <b><em>None</em></b> of this is fun.”<br/><br/>He took a long pull from his beer but it did little to cool his hot, all-consuming anger.<br/><br/>“You and me? We’re naht,” he bit back a burp, “we’re naht <em>Thelma and Louise</em>. We’re naht gonna <em>hold hands</em> and <em>ride off into the sunset</em> and <em>open a roadside stand to sell our homemade jerky</em>.”<br/><br/>Murderface cocked his head. “Do you not know how <em>Thelma and Louische</em> endsch?”<br/><br/>“Let’s get this straight.” He lowered his voice, pointing with the hand holding his drink. Foamy amber liquid sloshed over his knuckles.  “Yer here because yer my last resort.”<br/><br/>Murderface’s expression fractured.<br/><br/>“So shut the fuck up and let’s get this over with.”<br/><br/>Pickles slumped into the booth, the vinyl cracking beneath his shifting weight. A glimmer of hurt flickered across Murderface’s features but was quickly glossed over with a hardened sneer. He crossed his arms; Pickles mirrored his pose. The waitress appeared, wordlessly set down their orders, and vanished. Pickles scooped up his burger with both hands and took the biggest chomp his jaw would allow. The patty was burned, the bun stale, the taste dry and unsatisfying in his mouth. Murderface’s food remained untouched.<br/><br/>“I don’t <em>have</em> to be here,” Murderface said slowly. “I agreed to thisch, asch a favor, to <em>you</em><b><em>, lescht we forget</em></b>.”<br/><br/>The busboy arrived with a third beer.<br/><br/>“Pardon <b><em>me</em></b> for trying to inject a little <b><em>levity</em></b> into thesche <b><em>tensche circumschtances</em></b>. You don’t get to be a <em>dick</em> to me when I’m <b><em>trying to help you</em></b>.”<br/><br/>“Since you don’t wanna be here,” Pickles garbled around a mouthful of soggy fries, “why don’t you just <em>go home?”<br/><br/></em>“Fine! I’ll hitchhike back! I don’t give a fuck!”<br/><br/>“Fine! Do it!”<br/><br/>“Fine! I will!”<br/><br/>“<b><em>Fuck you</em></b>!”<br/><br/>“<b><em>FUCK YOU</em></b>!”<br/><br/>Murderface shoved his meal aside and stood, his exit punctuated by the crash of ceramic as his plate slammed against Pickles’s. He exploded out of the booth, shuffling around the table and stumbling into the aisle, an open lane to the exit laid out before him. The rage that had been percolating in Pickles for <em>hours</em> curdled into guilt.  The day with Murderface had been terrible. The days ahead would be so, <em>so</em> much worse without him.<br/><br/>Whether it was shame or panic or self-preservation or some unholy mix of the three, Pickles swallowed his food and his pride and caught Murderface by the elbow.<br/><br/>“No,” he said, “yer right.”<br/><br/>“<b><em>Yeah</em></b> I am!” Murderface exclaimed, and then balked, as though he was not anticipating this response. “I am?”<br/><br/>Pickles released him and gestured for him to sit. Murderface narrowed his eyes, but obliged.<br/><br/>“You <em>are</em> doin’ me a favor.” Pickles scratched at the inside corner of his eye with his middle finger, gaze cast down. “And I <em>have</em> been a dick, and that’s naht fair, and I’m sorry.”<br/><br/>The clatter of pool balls was followed by a defeated groan. A loud <em>flush</em> trailed one of the drunks exiting the bathroom. Murderface clucked his tongue, face unreadable. Then, he leaned forward, snatched the full beer between them, and smiled.<br/><br/>“Apology accepted,” he said, and took a victorious sip. Pickles released air through his nostrils in relief.<br/><br/>“It’s just hittin’ me naow that I’m gonna see my family for the first time in…” He drank, brow furrowing. “Fuck. I don’t even <em>know</em> how long.” He put his beer down and pressed the heels of his hands to his temples. “Shit! This is gonna suck! Why am I doin’ this?”<br/><br/>“Why <em>are</em> you doing thisch?”<br/><br/>The question disarmed him. “Huh?"<br/><br/>“There hasch to be a reaschon why you’re putting yourchself through all thisch schtress.” Murderface unscrewed the cap of the ketchup bottle. “What isch it?”<br/><br/>“Cause I have to.”<br/><br/>Murderface stabbed at the air with the open bottle, flecks of tomato paste dotting the tabletop. <br/><br/>“No,” he said, swinging around his newfound leverage. “Fuck that. Give me a real anschwer or I’m out of here.”<br/><br/>Pickles hesitated. Words abandoned him. Outside, a hawk landed atop a billboard for a local hardware store.<br/><br/>“My family,” he started, haltingly, “they just. They make me <em>crazy</em>.”<br/><br/>Murderface plucked a fry and rolled his wrist, as if to say, <em>you’ll have to do better than that.<br/><br/></em>“I didn’t always hate my family,” he continued. “But they were always lookin’ for a reason t’hate me. And then I left, and they gaht one.”<br/><br/>Heat flared on the peaks of his cheekbones and the lobes of his ears. The back of his neck was suddenly hot. He gathered his hair into a loose bun.<br/><br/>“They <b>hated</b> me for being the only one’a them smart enough to get out of dodge and now! <b><em>Now!</em></b> They think I’m this washed up has been <em>junkie</em>, and just cause they stuck around that shithole fer longer than I did they’re somehow <b><em>better</em></b> than me! Well they’re <b><em>naht!</em></b>”<br/><br/>Murderface’s eyes ticked aside for a second, and Pickles realized he was yelling. The drunks at the bar gawked at him slack-jawed. The waitress, hovering at another table, glowered. The kids at the pool table snickered. Pickles half-waved at no one in contrition and hid the bottom half of his face behind his beer.<br/><br/>“My family thinks I’m nobody,” he said quietly. “But I’m <em>somebody,</em> damn it. I’m.” Embarrassment colored his cheeks. “<em>I’m somebody</em>.”<br/><br/>A long moment passed, and Pickles worried he said too much. But then Murderface grinned and said: <br/><br/>“Oh! Schpite!”<br/><br/>The laugh that escaped Pickles was involuntary and cathartic.<br/><br/>“Yeeah, I guess.”<br/><br/>“Causche I can get behind <em>schpite</em>.”<br/><br/>Pickles cackled.<br/><br/>“Schpite isch the driving factor behind moscht of my existence.”<br/><br/>“Ohhhhhhh my Gahd…”<br/><br/>“<em>Nice day for a schpite wedding</em>, am I right?”<br/><br/>“Stahp, please, I’m gunna throw up.”<br/><br/>Giggles shook Pickles to his core, and it took him a minute to steady himself. He pressed his palms to his face, inhaling deeply. His hands fell away, his eyes adjusted, and across from him Murderface glowed with a renewed, endearing excitement.<br/><br/>“If you want to go up there and wreck schop,” he said, “I’m your man.”<br/><br/>Pickles smirked. “Looks like I picked th’right guy to come with me.”<br/><br/>Murderface rolled his eyes.<br/><br/>“More like you were <em>schtuck</em> with the guy who <em>happened</em> to be right.”<br/><br/>“Either way.” His smirk widened into a wide, sincere smile. “The right person’s here naow.”<br/><br/>Murderface matched his smile. Another beat went by, and they silently returned to their mediocre meals.<br/><br/>There was still a chance they could hit Atlanta before dark, so they departed soon after. The gravel crunched beneath their shoes as they walked to the car. As they went, Pickles grabbed Murderface by the shoulder.<br/><br/>“Hey,” he said. “Thanks fer doin’ this with me, dood. And thanks fer pickin’ up the check.”<br/><br/>Murderface’s face crinkled with confusion. “I didn’t pay, I thought <em>you</em> payed.”<br/><br/>Pickles squinted in contemplation.<br/><br/>“So if <em>you</em> didn’t pay, and <em>I</em> didn’t pay, then that means…”<br/><br/>An enormous, furious man in a grease-stained apron wielding a butcher’s knife exploded from the bar entrance.<br/><br/>“You think you can skip out on a bill on <b><em>me? I’ll kill you!!!”<br/><br/></em></b>“<em>Nyeeehhhhhh!</em>”<br/><br/>“Let’sch get out of here!”<br/><br/></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><a href="https://little-murmaider.tumblr.com/post/630060313574801408/this-is-a-lot-of-work-for-one-1-throwaway-line">I have very specific thoughts about Pre-Klok Band Dynamics.</a>.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In his haste to hit the road early, Pickles left his massive CD binder collecting dust on his bedside table. So he and Murderface were at the mercy of the radio.<br/><br/>The first leg of their journey was soundtracked by staticky Christian rock, sorrowful country, and a deep dive into the migratory patterns of the Gray-cheeked Thrush that played on every single AM station on loop. But things improved as they closed in on Atlanta. The adult contemporary and pop stations weren’t ideal, but they were better than the alternative. (Specifically: The alternative station. If Pickles heard Bittersweet Symphony <em>one more time</em> he was going to drive into oncoming traffic.)<br/><br/>The highway rolled out before them like the tongue of a cartoon cat. Dusk was descending, the car’s interior illuminated with pink and gold.<br/><br/>“<b><em>You’re listening to WCAW: THE CROW! WHERE ROCK SQUAWKS!</em></b>”<br/><br/>A screechy <b><em>CAAAAAAW</em></b> rattled the speakers.<br/><br/>“<b><em>Been getting a lot of requests for this one!” </em></b>The DJ went on.<b><em> “And since, as my producers keep reminding me, my sole purpose in life is to satisfy the ever-shifting whims of a cruel and fickle public, here’s Wide Open Spaces by the Dixie Chicks!</em></b>”<br/><br/>The DJ’s voice bled seamlessly into the song’s twangy intro. Murderface uncrossed his ankles, lifted them off the airbag, and lowered them into the well. Pickles steered with the heel of his palm, his free hand flicking at the switch for the power windows. Neither reached for the radio dial.<br/><br/>“Pft,” scoffed Pickles.<br/><br/>“Pft PFT,” scoffed Murderface.<br/><br/>“<em>🎶 </em><em>Who doesn't know what I'm talking about?<br/></em><em>Who's never left home, who's never struck out </em><em>🎶</em><em>—”<br/><br/></em>“They’ll jest put anythin’ on the radio these days.”<br/><br/>“No accounting for taschte! You can change it if you want.”<br/><br/><em>“🎶 </em><em>To find a dream and a life of their own<br/></em><em>A place in the clouds, a foundation of stone </em><em>🎶</em><em>—”<br/><br/></em>“It’s like no one knows whut <em>real music</em> is anymore!”<br/><br/>“Yeah! Causche it’s not <em>thisch</em> crap!”<br/><br/>“Y’gaht that right! Y’can go ahead an’ change it if ya want.”<br/><br/>“<em>🎶 </em><em>Many precede and many will follow<br/></em><em>A young girl's dreams no longer hollow </em><em>🎶</em><em>—”<br/><br/></em>“I hate thisch schong!”<br/><br/>“Me too!”<br/><br/>“Scho you can change it.”<br/><br/>“Yeah y’can go ahead and change it!”<br/><br/><br/>“Oh I <em>definitely</em> don’t want to lischten to <em>thisch</em>, scho you can change it.”<br/><br/>“Yeeah me neither! We should totally change it!”<br/><br/>“Yeah!”<br/><br/>“Yeeah!”<br/><br/><em>“🎶 </em><em>It takes the shape of a place out west<br/></em><em>But what it holds for her, she hasn't yet guessed </em><em>🎶</em>—”<br/><br/>“...I love thisch schong.”<br/><br/>“Oh thank Gahd.”<br/><br/>“<em>🎶 She needs 🎶—</em>”<br/><br/>Pickles cranked the volume to full blast.<br/><br/>“<em>🎶 </em><b><em>WIIIIIIDE OPEN SPAAAAACES </em></b><em>🎶</em>”<br/><br/>At his core, Pickles was a performer. He had a unique flair for characters; was a natural at fitting his personality within contours of whatever persona would draw the most attention. He played the role of The Good Kid until his part was recast. He played the role of the swaggering frontman, all charm and hairspray and surreptitious side glances. Even around the other guys, he felt a certain obligation to maintain the illusion of togetherness. To present as the seen-it-all, up-for-anything ex-rock star he was sure everyone expected him to be.<br/><br/>“<em>🎶 </em><b><em>ROOM TO MAAAAKE A BIG MISTAAAAAAKE </em></b><em>🎶</em><b><em>—</em></b>”<br/><br/>But in that moment, the suffocating, omnipresent pressure to always be On disappeared. Instead, Pickles felt light. This brief detour into sincerity would not be weaponized against him. He wasn’t worried about belting out every single word, because so was Murderface. He didn’t need to hide that he was enjoying himself, because so was Murderface. It was nice to let himself off the leash, with someone eager to do the same. The Georgian landscape droned by the windows, and Pickles and Murderface were in harmony.<br/><br/>“<em>🎶 </em><b><em>She said, "It didn't seem like that long ago<br/></em></b><b><em>When she stood there and let her own folks know</em></b><em>—</em><em>🎶<br/><br/></em>Murderface pantomimed the chorus with vaudevillian exaggeration, spreading his arms across the dashboard as if that great expanse of plastic was the very <em>Wide Open Space</em> they were singing about. His earnest desire for acceptance bordered on desperation. Every social interaction was a chance for him to force his friendship onto whatever sad hump was willing to tolerate it. But he never adapted to suit an audience, and he never shrunk himself to meet someone’s sensitive sensibilities.  No matter the circumstance, Murderface was always, unabashedly himself. It was a trait equal parts embarrassing and endearing. <br/><br/>Pickles effortlessly glided into the final chorus’s high note (“<em>🎶 </em><b><em>She knows the HIGHest sta-HIIIIII-iIIIiiii-kes</em></b>.<em>🎶 </em>”) and improvised a jazzy little run to close out the song. His blood buzzed with satisfaction. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d really let it <em>rip</em> vocally; the last time singing was fun.<br/><br/>“FUCK man that last verse is so<em> fuckin’</em> clever!” Pickles rattled his knuckles on the steering wheel. “Y’think, <em>oh, that’s the mahm of the girl from the beginnin’ of the song</em>, right? And she’s watchin’ her daughter go off on her own, yeah? And she says she did the <em>exact</em> <em>same thing</em> when <em>she</em> was her daughter’s age, and it’s a cute little button t’end the song on. That’s nice, that’s a fair interpretation.”<br/><br/>He slapped his blinker and scooted around a slow-moving Volvo, absently aware that Murderface was not participating in the conversation.<br/><br/>“Or!” Pickles continued. “<b>Or!!!</b> What if the <em>mahm</em> from the end of the song <b><em>is</em></b> the girl from the beginnin’ of the song? An’ now she’s watchin’ <em>her girl</em> find a <em>wide open space </em><b><em>of her very own?!</em></b> I mean, fuckin’, that’s <em>great</em>, that’s jest good songwritin’ right there.”<br/><br/>The sun had shifted, the road beyond the windshield an overexposed photograph. In his washed-out periphery, Pickles could see Murderface staring at him. Even at this angle Pickles recognized that look. Wide-eyes glossy with pity. Regret clutched him by the scruff of the neck. He adjusted his visor, a shadow cutting across his face.<br/><br/>“Whut?” he asked.<br/><br/>Murderface exhaled and then said, breathlessly, “You’ve got a kick-assch schinging voice.”<br/><br/>Pickles scoffed dismissively.<br/><br/>“I’m scherious!” The radio had transitioned into another Billboard hit Pickles didn’t recognize. Murderface turned the volume down. “We gotta get schome of your vocalsch on the record.”<br/><br/>Pickles shook his head. “Naw, dood, that’s naht really.” He squinted as he held up his pinched fingers, hand bobbing at the end of his steady wrist. “<em>Da Dethklok Sound.</em>”<br/><br/>“What are you doing?” He mimicked the gesture. “What isch thisch?”<br/><br/>“That’s Magnus! That’s my Magnus impression!”<br/><br/>“Isch he a consigliere?”<br/><br/>“Shuddup, that’s a <em>perfect</em> Magnus impression and ya <em>know</em> it!”<br/><br/>“Lemme hear schome more of it.”<br/><br/>In the same voice and with the same hand motions, Pickles said, “<em>Eyyyyyyyyy I like-a de knives, I make-a de meatballs.”<br/><br/></em>As Murderface threw his head back into the headrest with a full-body cackle, the lightness that filled Pickles when he sang returned. He could feel the blood clot of remorse being flushed out of his system. But before it could, the radio hissed with static and clicked to a new station.<br/><br/><b><em>“Long-time listeners will know THESE formerly strapping young lads! They were the hottest act in the world before they spun out into oblivion! Lady Fame can be an unforgiving mistress, am I right? Anyway here’s D.E.D by Snak—”<br/><br/></em></b>Pickles slammed the power button with the side of his fist. <br/><br/>“Tsh.” He flicked his aviators down to shield his eyes. They landed crookedly on the bridge of his nose. “Whut’s <em>this</em> guy doin’?” He tipped his chin toward the Mazda puttering in the lane beside them. “Fuckin’ <em>maniac</em>. Learn t’<em>drive</em>, amirite?”<br/><br/>“I think if you schang on a record it would be great,” Murderface said quietly.<br/><br/>The engine revved as the car accelerated.<br/><br/>“<em>Yuuuuuuuuuu-eeeeaaaaaaah</em> that’s just <em>naht my scene</em> anymore, dood.” He pawed for the seat recline handle and pushed himself into a casual lean. “That’s part’a my life is behind me, y’know? I’m ready to, heh, sit in the back, hit my marks, naht get noticed.”<br/><br/>The cabin filled with silence. Traffic slowed as the lanes thickened with rush hour. On the opposite side of the highway, a state trooper flipped on its siren and peeled off the shoulder in a cloud of dust.<br/><br/>Murderface cleared his throat.<br/><br/>“Schpeaking as schomeone who’sch used to not getting noticed.” His tone suggested he was attempting a joke. “You’re the kind of guy that’sch alwaysch going to draw attention.”<br/><br/>Pickles snorted. “Well fuck you too!”<br/><br/>The moment lengthened. Then Murderface muttered:<br/><br/>“Waschn’t meant asch an inschult.”<br/><br/>Pickles kept his head forward, but behind his dark glasses his gaze ticked to the passenger seat. Murderface was curved away from him, the heel of his boot hooked on the armrest. His body was folded in grumpy indifference, but the tips of his ears burned bright red. A pang of guilt knocked in Pickles’s chest, though for what, he was unsure. He powered on the radio and switched to an AM station.<br/><br/><b><em>“The migratory patterns of Gray-cheeked Thrush are as fascinating as they are consistent…”</em></b></p><p><br/>---</p><p><br/><br/>The motels Charles flagged as Potential Day One Stopping Points were all well outside the city center. Which was a savvy move on his part: If Pickles and Murderface spent the night in Atlanta there was a decent chance they would never leave. They got settled at a dodgy Travel Inn a few miles from the airport. The windows rumbled with departures and arrivals.<br/><br/>Charles didn’t mark any liquor stores on his map, but Pickles was a bloodhound for booze. The wobbly, wood-paneled desk had been transformed into a make-shift bar, bottles of varying sizes arranged in a row beneath a mirror framed in flaking gold paint. Styrofoam take-out containers were stacked on the rim of the too-narrow wastebasket. Simpsons re-runs played on a muted TV.<br/><br/>Murderface emerged from the bathroom accompanied by a loud flush.<br/><br/>“Forgot to pack a razor!” he announced unprompted. “Better pick one up before the wedding.” He contemplatively drew his thumb and pointer finger across the patch of skin above his upper lip. “Don’t want to schow up and have people mischtaking me for Tom Schelleck.”<br/><br/>Stuffed full of fried food, loopy from the long drive, and teetering on the edge of a little too drunk, Pickles flopped onto his bed. The only double room available was a smoking room. The floral-patterned bedspread stunk of decades of stale cigarettes.<br/><br/>“Yeeah that’s naht gunna be a prahblem.”<br/><br/>Murderface flipped him off and snagged a paper cup from beside the coffee maker. The ice machine on their floor was out of order, and the mini-fridge was too small to fit all their wares. As he fixed himself another warmish rum and Coke, Murderface’s reflected gaze met Pickles’s.<br/><br/>“Schure you don’t want to schee how thisch schtuff getsch made?” He gave the soda bottle a tantalizing jiggle. “The factory’sch not far from here, could be a good learning experience—”<br/><br/>Pickles blew a long, elephanty raspberry.<br/><br/>“Well ExCUUUUUUSCHE <em> ME </em> for trying to inject a little <em> FUN </em> into thisch godlessch endeavor.”<br/><br/>“This is fun! Drinkin’ is fun! Oh that reminds me.” He topped himself off with the mini bottle of Jim Beam on the bedside table. “ <b>Never</b> drink tequila wit’ Nathan, it makes him <b>crazy. </b> One time I saw him rip th’ bumper off’a squad car.” He glanced aside with a wistful smile. “It <b>ruled </b>but, y’know, we shouldn’t make-a habit of it.”</p><p>Murderface tasted his concoction, winced, and dumped the remainder of the Coke into his cup. He took another sip and pivoted to the TV, muttering about how the episode airing was a <em> really </em> good one. Watching him, their earlier conversation sticking to his ribs, Pickles felt an instigative thought burst in his brain like an aneurysm. Bourbon often made him mischievous.  <br/><br/>“Heyyyyyyy,” he drawled, and waited for Murderface to look back over his shoulder. “C’mere, siddown, I gaht a question fer ya.”<br/><br/>Snatching the rum by the neck, Murderface lumbered over and sunk onto his bed. Pickles sat up too. Their legs dangled in the canal between them.<br/><br/>Pickles downed his drink, hissed, and after a pause asked: “Didja know who I was? When I auditioned?”<br/><br/>“Of coursche I did.”<br/><br/>“Wh—! <em> Alla </em> you?”<br/><br/>“ <b> <em>Duhhhhhhhhhhh</em> </b> . You didn’t know?”<br/><br/>“How wuz I supposta know?” He made a grab of the rum, the ends of his fingers just out of reach. Murderface closed the gap. “ <em> None </em> -a ya <em> reacted </em> when I came in!”<br/><br/>“Bro. I <em> freaked out </em> when Magnus schaid you were intereschted in the band. I told him he wasch <em> ridiculousch </em> for making you audition!”<br/><br/>Pickles took a long pull from the rum, smirking around the lip of the bottle. “So Magnus downplayed it.”<br/><br/>“Not really? I don’t know. You know how he getsch. I think he liked the <em> novelty </em> of who you were but didn’t want it to dischtract from.” He pinched his fingers and squinted. “ <em> Da Dethklok Schound </em> .”<br/><br/>Pickles snickered.<br/><br/>“Nathan wasch, he wasch very <em> Nathan </em> about the whole thing. All he cared about wasch whether or not you could play.” He swirled his paper cup of cheap rum as though it was a fine wine. A smile crept across his mouth. “Skwishgaar loscht hisch <em> fucking </em> mind.”<br/><br/>“ <b> <em>No.</em> </b> ”<br/><br/>“Yeah!”<br/><br/>“ <em> Skwis?!”<br/><br/></em> “Yeah!!! He pulled me aschide and wasch just like.” He dropped his voice to the bottom of his register. “ <b> <em>Isch Pickle??? Isch Pickle???</em> </b> That wasch, huh.” He tipped his head to the side. “That wasch the firscht time we really connected, and it wasch about <em> you </em> . Huh.”<br/><br/>Pickles tossed his cup in the direction of the wastebasket and continued drinking straight from the bottle.<br/><br/>“I wuz so sure my star had burned out,” he teased, half-pouting. Murderface’s eyebrows shot into his hairline.<br/><br/>“Are you kidding? You’re a <em> legend </em> .”<br/><br/>Pickles told himself the burn in his chest was from the rum.<br/><br/>“I’ve scheen <em> all </em> your magazine covers. Hell, I usched to—”<br/><br/>He stopped himself. Pickles perked up.<br/><br/>“Y’used to <em> what? </em> ”<br/><br/>Murderface turned back to the TV. “Thisch isch a <em> really </em> good epischode.”<br/><br/>Curiosity ignited within Pickles. He leaned forward, innocently.<br/><br/>“Didja know I can dislocate my shoulder at will?”<br/><br/>“That’sch a weird non-schequitur but good for you I guessch…”<br/><br/>Pickles gripped the bend of his elbow, tugged, and dislodged his arm from the socket with an audible <em> pop </em> .<br/><br/>“ <b> <em>AAUAGH!!!!</em> </b> ”<br/><br/>“Yuh I busted it skateboardin’ as a kid.” He twisted so his dead arm flopped bonelessly across his torso. “Never healed right.”<br/><br/>“Put it back!”<br/><br/>“Tell me whacha were gunna say!”<br/><br/>Pickles held his bicep and leaned forward to wave the dead arm in Murderface’s face.<br/><br/>“ <b> <em>AAUGH!</em> </b> ”<br/><br/>“Tell me!”<br/><br/>“Fine! Okay! Fine! Put it back first!”<br/><br/>Pickles complied, pushing his arm back in place and waggling his fingers like a sleight of hand magician. <br/><br/>“Okey. Tell me.”<br/><br/>In the skirmish Murderface’s drink slopped over his shorts, the hem dark and sopping. Murderface thumbed the wet patch and sighed.<br/><br/>“It’sch not weird…”<br/><br/>“Good stahrt.”<br/><br/>“...It’sch juscht <em> embarrassching </em> . I.” He grimaced. “I usched to collect your magazine coversch. Becausche I liked to look at them.”<br/><br/>A flare shot up the back of Pickles’s neck. “You liked t’look at <em> me </em> ?”<br/><br/>“No!” Murderface sputtered. He scrunched up his beet-red face. “Well. Yeah. I, alright.” Flustered, he stared at the floor, his shoulders slumping. “I grew up in a schitty town, with my schitty grandparents, and I got my assch kicked every day, and all I wanted was to Be Dead.”<br/><br/>He hesitated, his expression softening.<br/><br/>“But when I looked at you on thosche magazine coversch I felt...hope? Causche if <em> you </em> could get out of <em> your </em> schitty town and <em> make schomething </em> of yourschelf, then...maybe scho could I.”<br/><br/>The air conditioner kicked on, fluttering the ends of the mud-colored curtains. Murderface took a drink from his empty cup. Pickles felt a bead of condensation slide down the neck of the bottle and dribble over his knuckles. A beat passed. Then, a wide, lecherous smile spread across Pickles’s face.<br/><br/>“Waow,” he said. “That <em> is </em> embarrassin’.”<br/><br/>“ <b>Fuck you.</b> ”<br/><br/>“I almost wish ya told me ya usedta jack off t’them.”<br/><br/>“I wasch being earnescht you degenerate!” He pushed him off the bed, sliding off his boot and using it to pummel Pickles into the ground. Pickles cackled, shielding his face with his arms. “You have to tell me schomething equally embarrassing to even things out. It’sch only fair.”<br/><br/>He popped him once more in the temple for good measure and fell back onto the bed. Pickles raised himself into a seated position, the scratchy rug digging into his tailbone.<br/><br/>“Okey, okey, lemme think.” He rubbed his face, feeling the stubble blooming, absently wondered if he also forgot to pack a razor. “Okey I gaht one. Y’know <em> Th’Muppet Movie </em> , right?<br/><br/>“I have a <b>heart</b> and a <b>schoul</b> and <b>the irrepresschible whimschy of a child,</b> do I not?”<br/><br/>“Fine, yeeh, okey.” He exhaled a giggle. “Y’know the song that Kermit sings at the beginnin’?”<br/><br/>“Rainbow Connection.”<br/><br/>“Yeeah.” He clicked his tongue, a grin pulling at the side of his mouth. “Every time I hear that song it makes me cry.”<br/><br/>Murderface blinked owlishly. “Really?”<br/><br/>The memory returned to Pickles in a perfect chrysalis. He was 13, skipping school, being a ne’er do the well to the best of his ability, when at a distance he spotted Mrs. Flannery, his mom’s Church Friend, who would <em> absolutely </em> rat him out, so he ducked into the movie theater and bought a ticket for the only thing playing. He thought it would be a good enough place to drink his forty, alone and uninterrupted and surrounded by darkness. It was a movie about puppets? It was for babies? Who cared? But that slow sweep through the swamp rended his heart in a way he could not explain. His circulatory system was flooded with the sudden rush of something unknown, and by the time the camera reached Kermit he was weeping.<br/><br/>It confused him as a kid, and still a little now. That moment in the movie wasn’t a sad moment, and he never understood why it always made him so sad.<br/><br/>He explained all this to Murderface but something did not translate.<br/><br/>“...And then my douchebeeg brother—I have this brother, Seth, Seth my brother—he gaht me th’soundtrack on vinyl. And of <em> course </em> my parents were like, <em> ‘ooooooh Sethy’s so thoughtful!’ </em> But he only <em> did it </em> so he could put it on when he had friends over to smoke, y’know, t’make me look like a sissy, cause that first note hits and <b>boom!</b> Waterworks.”<br/><br/>He laughed, throatily and loud, and after a moment realized he was laughing alone.<br/><br/>“...Yer naht laughin’.”<br/><br/>Murderface cocked his head. “Why would I be laughing?”<br/><br/>“Cuz it’s funny! It’s stupid!”<br/><br/>“I don’t think it’sch schtupid,” Murderface said. “I think it’sch nice.”<br/><br/>Pickles studied him, tension spiderwebbing through his chest. Behind his sternum he felt the building of something unfamiliar, and the familiar impulse to squash it down before he could identify what it was. It was as though he were thumbing the busted wheel of a faulty lighter, only to be surprised by a sudden, inexplicable spark catching into a bright and nameless burn.<br/><br/>A flame he could easily snuff out.<br/><br/>“We gaht a lotta road to cover if we’re gonna hit Indy by tomorrow night,” he said flatly, clambering onto his bed.<br/><br/>Murderface’s expression clouded briefly, confused by the gearshift. When he spoke again he stuttered a little, as though he just swallowed a wad of spit.<br/><br/>“O-Oh?”<br/><br/>“Hafta be up pretty early.”<br/><br/>“Oh. Yeah. Right.”<br/><br/>“So we should prahbably…?”<br/><br/>“Yeah. Yeah. Of coursche. Yeah.”<br/><br/>Pickles wiggled beneath the sheets, not even bothering to take off his jeans, and rolled his head to face away. The unfinished liquor could be stuffed into bags in the morning. Murderface flitted about the room, returning to the bathroom once more before hitting the lights and burrowing into the bed of his own.<br/><br/>“Goodnight Picklesch,” he murmured.<br/><br/>Pickles did not respond.<br/><br/>They laid there, in parallel silence, until the lull of Murderface’s snores disrupted the quiet. The curtains were closed, the lights switched off, but still the room was bathed in a soft blue glow. Pickles craned his neck up. They’d left the TV on. The remote was on the dresser, and Pickles could not bring himself to get up. On screen, Homer sat on the hood of his bright pink Plymouth Valiant and gazed up at a dark sky full of stars. <br/><br/>Pickles turned onto his side and stared at the wall until sleep claimed him.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you so much Kelly for reading this over! If you're unfamiliar with the songs mentioned in this chapter here's <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dom7VlltBUc">Wide Open Spaces</a> and here's <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WS3Lkc6Gzlk">Rainbow Connection!</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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